


Sanctifying Grace

by Lynx22281



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Post-Purgatory, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx22281/pseuds/Lynx22281
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel makes the decision to remain in Purgatory once Dean and Benny reach the portal back to Earth.   His last night with Dean leads to unexpected circumstances and a Heavenly rescue.  When Castiel finally gets back to the Winchesters, their lives will change in a way nobody ever saw coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're close. The air in the vicinity of the portal is different. It's not as stifling, not as oppressive. The atmosphere shivers with a strange energy. But, they aren't close enough to reach the dimensional rip before the quickly fading light gives way completely to nightfall. The dim light of day hasn't even lasted a full three hours today. They pick their way across the wooded landscape, bare twisted trees looming menacingly overhead, heading for a cave to hold up for the night.

Benny whirls around abruptly, nose twitching at the unmistakable stench of acrid, hot tar. "We got company, boys."

Dean and Castiel turn, bodies dropping instinctively into fighting stances. Dean's hand curls tightly around his bone-handled obsidian knife as Castiel's angel blade falls from the sleeve of his disheveled trenchcoat with a menacing swish. 

The Leviathan have been tailing them for days, always on the edges of their awareness, dashing between trees, rocks, and shadows in their peripheral vision. The abominations are wearing the travelers down the closer they get to the portal, toying with them, never giving them a moment's peace, making the haggard trio exhausted solely from being on constant high alert. 

A dozen Leviathan suddenly emerge only a few yards away. This time the oily monsters don't just tease; they launch their attack, unable to risk the trio making it to the portal if they wait any longer. The assault is relentless. When the first dozen is dispatched to respawn in the vicious Purgatory cycle of pain-death-rebirth, another dozen takes their place. The human hunter, the vampire, and the fallen angel hack and slash their way through heads and limbs, but like a hydra, when one monster is defeated, two more pop up in its stead. 

Dean goes down with a wild, distressed cry when three Leviathan fall on top of him, hungry mouths unhinged revealing row after row of sharp, dripping fangs. They aren't going to win by fighting fair. Castiel stops in the middle of the battlefield, pausing just long enough to concentrate, pulling his Grace tight around his vessel before sending it out in a targeted white-hot blast that obliterates the horde of Leviathan, but leaves Dean and Benny untouched. He stumbles to the ground, legs weak and wobbly, as the power leeches out of him faster than usual. He tries to gather up the loose, frayed edges of his Grace, folding them together in a tiny concentrated ball of energy to sustain him for now. It will take days, maybe even a week, for his Grace to fully recover, but the sacrifice is worth it. Dean and Benny are alive and they will be able make it to the portal tomorrow.

The vampire kneels next to Dean. Castiel watches them, his chest heaving with exertion. Dean is still lying flat on the ground, not moving, but Castiel can hear him talking to Benny. He watches the bearded man carefully slide one arm under Dean's knees and tuck the other arm behind the hunter's back, lifting him up bridal-style.

"You ok?" Benny pauses by Castiel.

"Yes. I just need a moment." Castiel looks up with a nod. His eyes fall on Dean, curled rigidly against Benny's chest. Dean's dirt streaked face is pulled tight in a pain filled grimace. That look is enough to send Castiel into motion. He staggers to his feet, following Benny towards the cave.

Together, they settle Dean on the floor of the cave with Benny's thick wool peacoat as a pillow and Castiel's trenchcoat as a poor substitute for a blanket. The vampire leaves the cave to gather kindling and sticks for a fire while the angel assesses Dean's injuries. The hunter's left shoulder is dislocated as is his right knee. A long, jagged cut runs down the side of his face from his hairline down to his jaw. Angry red bruises have bloomed across his abdomen and chest. His knuckles are split open, oozing sticky blood between his fingers.

Castiel moves his hands over Dean's body, lightly brushing his fingertips over very hurt. He isn't strong enough to completely heal all of the injuries, but he can ease the joints back into place, stop the bleeding, and soothe the aching muscles. The tenseness in Dean's body slowly eases as the pain fades away. Castiel's hands continue their gentle motions long after the remainder of his Grace sparks and fizzles out, unable to relieve even the most minor injury. He knows that touch, even without any supernatural healing abilities, is powerful enough on its own, and he just doesn’t want to stop touching Dean.

Benny returns long enough to build the fire nearby before heading to the mouth of the cave to keep the first watch.

This will be their last night together. Tomorrow Dean will step through the portal and go back to Earth, go back to Sam, go back to his life. Tomorrow Castiel will stay in Purgatory to continue his penance for all the wrongs he has committed against Heaven and his brethren. He doesn't deserve to leave this place. He deserves to suffer, to run for his life for the rest of eternity, to remain the broken, fallen thing he has become. But before they are separated forever, he will make this last memory with Dean to sustain him.

The angel's hands slide up to Dean's face, cupping the man's strong, squared jaw. Dean has always been the most beautiful thing Castiel has ever set his eyes on. That fact is still true despite the layers of grime, sweat, and dried blood that cake the hunter's face. Dean looks up at him, questioningly; he knows Purgatory has been affecting his Grace and that he has been using it very sparingly. Castiel doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to explain what he did and why he did it. 

When Dean takes a breath, preparing to speak, Castiel leans down, covering his lips with his own, silencing him before he has a chance to berate the angel for using up his mojo or to deflect the severity of the situation with a dumb joke. Castiel kisses Dean, chaste and undemanding. There is a solemn weight behind the press of Castiel's lips, a gravitas to the sentiment. He says a dozen things with the kiss that he hopes Dean won't be able to fully realize until later, when he's safely away from this place.

Castiel never expects Dean to kiss him back. Just as he starts to withdraw, a heavy hand catches him on the back of the head, pulling him more firmly against Dean's lips. The hunter prods gently at his mouth with his tongue, seeking permission for entrance and Castiel grants it readily. Gingerly, Dean pushes him up without breaking the seal of their lips. For some time they just sit there, hip to hip, facing each other, hands cupping faces, thumbs stroking cheeks and jaws, eyes closed, drinking in each other. Their tongues languidly dance together, mapping out the dips and ridges of their mouths. The kiss moves far beyond Castiel's original intention, but he doesn't push Dean away. He draws him closer, clinging to the human...his human...his Dean. He will let him go tomorrow, but right now he hangs on, scoots closer and grips him tight.

Dean surges forward, guiding Castiel down into the hard rock floor and stretching out on top of him. His hot, calloused hands slide up under Castiel's once-white, now-gray scrub top seeking skin. The angel moans against his mouth, his vessel already responding to the warm weight cradled between his thighs. Castiel’s fingertips press into the firm flesh of Dean’s waist; their time in Purgatory has erased all evidence of too many burgers and beers from the previous year. This is what Dean always does after a fight that goes sideways. He seeks the comfort of another person, seeks a way to feel alive again, to burn off some of the excess adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

This doesn't mean anything significant, sex is just something Dean needs right now, and Castiel knows that. While that thought tugs painfully at him, it doesn’t keep him from kicking off his dirty, slip-on canvas shoes and struggling to shimmy out of his filthy elastic waist pants. With a ravenous look on his face, Dean sits back on his heels to unbutton and unzip his jeans, shoving them down past his hips. Castiel flips over onto his hands and knees, patiently waiting while Dean readies himself. He feels Dean's hand gently squeeze his bare hip, nudging him to turn around.

With a low, raspy voice, Dean says, "Not like this. I...I want to see you."

The angel turns around, looking at the hunter. Dean's hand is lazily stroking the hard, red length of his cock, a pearl of precome already beading at its head. He thumbs through the clear fluid, dragging it down his shaft. Bringing his freehand up to his mouth, he spits in his palm and further slicks up his cock as best he can. With a sardonic chuckle, he mutters, "Sorry, there isn't a Walgreens in Purgatory."

"I think I can help." Lying back down on the cave floor, Castiel closes his eyes, pulling hard on the last threads of his Grace. His angelic essence is nearly empty, but Dean is more than worth the loss. He feels a slippery digit prodding at his entrance. Dean gasps in surprise when his finger easily slides into Castiel's already slick channel. 

"Huh...that's um...that's useful. Wish I had known about that before now." Dean pumps his forefinger into Castiel a few times before adding his middle finger. He sweeps his thumb over the angel's perineum, bumping gently against his balls as he spreads his fingers inside Castiel, opening him up wider. His fingers crook in a 'come here' motion, fingertips rubbing against the vessel's prostate. Castiel wails at the spikes of pleasure flaring out from that one spot.

"Dean...please," he begs softly, trying not to writhe under Dean's careful attention, but failing miserably.

Dean withdraws his fingers and sits back on his heels. He pulls Castiel up, helping him straddle his lap as he reaches down with one hand to nudge the head of his cock against the angel's slick, loosened entrance. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders, their gazes locking together. He can see the flicker of Dean's mended soul in the thin ring of mossy green surrounding his dilated pupils. At any moment, he expects to be forced down on Dean's cock, thrust into hard and fast without care, for Dean to use him for fast relief, but he is caught off guard when Dean gently pushes down on his hips, easing him slow inch by slow inch down the length of his shaft until his ass rests firmly on top of Dean's thighs. 

A shaky hand snakes up Castiel's back, fingers threading through his mussed hair. Their foreheads press together, heavy breath mingling in the small space between them. Castiel has no idea how long they stay like this, connected together, silent and unmoving. There is no hurry, no rush to get to the finish line. There is no Heaven, no Hell, no Earth, no Purgatory. There are no monsters, no betrayals, no hidden agendas. They are the only two creatures in existence for this one instant in time. 

"Cas..." Dean whispers, plump pink lips brushing softly against the angel's.

The sound of his name breaks the spell. Castiel rolls his hips, eliciting a groan from the hunter. Dean's arms fall down to Castiel's waist, hands grabbing and fondling his ass. The angel's arms tighten around Dean's shoulders, his nails scratching against the hunter’s scalp. Dean sucks a dark bruise into the curve of Castiel's neck as he pumps his cock up into the other man's open and willing body.

"Fuck...Cas..." Dean moans, the sound vibrating along Castiel's spine.

Castiel clings with his arms and thighs as he rides the hard length of Dean's cock. He stifles a sob into Dean's shoulder, the sensation of having Dean inside of him becoming almost too much to bear. It reminds him of when he wrapped his Grace around Dean’s battered soul, piecing it back together, wiping away the taint of perdition, and baptizing it in pure holy light. Holding on tightly, he commits this to his good memories of Dean, placing it amongst the soft smiles, the gentle teasing, and the deep meaningful gazes where this thing between them first started to blossom. 

Dean shifts, angling his thrusts up and back towards himself to catch the head of his cock against the other man's prostate. Castiel gasps and moans in response to Dean's increasingly erratic, feverish pace. His own member is caught between their bare stomachs, shirts rucked up high on their abdomens. The smooth friction burns against his overheated, oversensitive skin. Something deep in his belly begins to coil tighter and tighter as Dean plunges harder and faster up into him. 

"Cas, come with me. C'mon, Cas. Come with me," Dean urges, panting roughly against Castiel's neck, his breath warm and humid. He digs his fingertips into the meat of Castiel's backside, jacking his hips sharply inside the angel.

Castiel cries out as his orgasm overtakes him, cock throbbing hard, almost painfully so, between their bodies. He holds fast to the few remaining brittle strands of his Grace, fighting hard to hang on to them as they thrum and vibrate, threatening to burst out of his vessel. His body clenches, squeezing firmly around Dean's shaft in rhythmic contractions. Dean yells through his own climax, thick streams of come pulsing inside Castiel's channel. He keeps rutting into Castiel, clinging to him with his face buried in the other man's neck for several long, sated minutes until his cock softens and slips out of the angel’s body. 

Dean's words echo in his mind, haunting his decision to stay even though Dean has no idea that Castiel isn't planning to leave Purgatory with him. Quietly, he extracts himself from Dean's lap. They fumble for their discarded pants, the night air growing cool on their clammy skin despite the small fire burning only a few feet away. Castiel starts to head towards the entrance of the cave, but Dean's hand around his wrist stops him.

"Stay with me for a little while." Dean’s voice is soft and uncertain.

"I need to relieve Benny and you need to sleep. There's still a great distance to cover tomorrow before we reach the portal and I wasn't able to completely heal you." He needs to put space between them, space that will strengthen his intention to push Dean through the rip without him.

"Benny'll be fine for a while longer." Dean tightens his grip on Castiel, gently tugging him closer.

Castiel sighs, his resolve crumbling for the moment. He kneels next to Dean as the other man refolds Benny's wool coat into something resembling a pillow. They settle down on the hard ground, Castiel spooning up behind Dean so he can make an easier get away once the hunter falls asleep. Thankfully, between the fight, his injuries, and their more recent activity, Dean is out like a light before too long.

He stays curled up with Dean longer than he means to, his nose buried into the back of Dean's head memorizing his smell. He will miss Dean more than he misses his Grace, more than he misses Heaven. He presses soft kisses to the space behind Dean's ear and down his neck, murmuring his love against the hunter's skin in every language he knows. If he still had the power, he'd carve the words on Dean's ribs like he did with the warding sigils years ago. 

Night drags on longer than day had. Castiel tucks his trenchcoat close around Dean before leaving his side to find Benny.

"You're not comin' with us tomorrow, are you?" the vampire asks without preamble.

The angel shakes his head.

"That's not gonna go over too well with Dean."

"He'll...get over it. I have to stay here."

Benny remains quiet as Castiel sits nearby, looking out sullenly over the wooded area just outside the cave. There's no moon to light the landscape, but tonight's one of those rare nights where it isn't pitch black out. The land itself seems to give off a dim luminescence, like a streetlight glowing several yards off in the distance. They sit in silence until the sky above begins to lighten. Benny goes into the cave to wake Dean up so they can begin the spell to bind his soul to Dean for the ride topside. They'll finish the spell just before crossing over.

The trio heads out of the cave and towards the site of the portal. They walk in silence, ears alert to the sounds of any approaching monsters. An hour later, they make it to the ridge overlooking a dry riverbed. The gateway, sensing a human soul nearby, rips open at the edge of the cliff above, wind roaring and whipping around violently. The anomaly acts as a beacon pinpointing their location and drawing out a new swarm of Leviathan that materializes out of thin air. 

Castiel hustles Dean towards Benny. "Go. I'll hold them off."

"Cas! No!" Dean shouts as Benny grabs him and drags him up the rocky outcropping where the portal waits.

Castiel's hand wraps around the familiar cool hilt of his sword as the monsters circle around him. He is what they want and as long as he's still alive they'll focus on him instead of Dean. They attack and he quickly kills the first three assailants. Castiel spares a brief moment to face the hill, to make sure that Benny and Dean are getting away. The vampire and hunter have made it to the top of the ridge and are completing the soul binding spell; their voices are overpowered by the deafening noise emanating from the vortex. Dean's eyes are locked on the fight below. Castiel turns his attention back to the Leviathan, slicing and pummeling his way through their numbers with growing difficulty. His strength is waning, and he just barely manages to duck away from the snapping jaws of the last monster before severing its head from its body. He retreats from the area before anymore monsters can show up and hastily climbs up the jagged bank where Dean waits alone at the threshold. 

"C'mon, Cas." Dean reaches out for him, to help him up.

He grasps Dean's hand, his heart breaking at the triumphant grin that spreads across the hunter's face as they catch each other's eye. That grin is quickly replaced by confusion when Castiel shoves him into the crackling fissure. Dean arches back, almost in slow motion, his hands reaching out, trying to grab for the angel. His eyes are wide as he realizes what is happening. Castiel can see the words forming on Dean’s lips as the portal swallows him and instantly flashes out of existence. 

Falling to his hands and knees, he lets out a keening wail that breaks the sudden oppressive silence bearing down on the area. This is no less than he deserves, to be alone, to be hunted, to be miserable, but the separation is still more painful than he ever imagined. But, he is still surprised at how strong his bond with Dean must have been to cause such searing hurt deep inside him. He stays on the ridge, sobbing out his loneliness and despair. 

It isn't long before another wave of Leviathan is drawn to him like moths to a flame. They envelop him, tearing at his vessel's flesh, taunting him with their knowledge of what happened last night. All of Purgatory seems to know about the angel who gave himself to a human. He flies into a blind rage at their insults and threats against Dean should they ever get their hands on him again. The whole of Purgatory lights up with the flare of a nuclear-level detonation, pure white light exploding outward, annihilating every single monster within a multi-mile radius.

The last thing he remembers before blacking out is the groaning of the trees around him as they sway from the unnatural blast.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel drifts in and out of consciousness for days. He only vaguely notices the passage of time when his bleary eyes open and he forces himself to focus long enough to register whether the room is light or dark before going back to sleep. As far as he can tell, nobody visits; there’s never anybody in the room when he manages to become aware of his surroundings and if someone comes in the room while he’s sleeping, then they never wake him up. There must be somebody around though, otherwise how did he get here? 

When he finally overcomes the aimless floating between barely awake and deep sleep, he studies his new environment. Nothing about the room reveals where he might be, though he can reasonably assume he isn’t in Hell or Purgatory. There are four pale walls. The one to his left has a closed door the same egg-shell white as the walls and one to his right has a frosted window that glows with daylight at the moment. The wall several feet beyond the foot of his bed is blank – no TV, no art, not even an electrical outlet to break up the smooth vertical surface. The dropped ceiling above has two light panels running parallel to the bed and an air vent between the bed and window. He is in a semi-upright position on a hospital bed, tucked into place on the firm mattress with a stark white sheet and a rose colored waffle-weaved blanket. His head rests on a single pillow. 

He is fully aware of his body and all of its aches, pains, and alien functions. His legs are twitchy from being still for so long. The back of his head itches from being pressed against the pillow. His skin is slightly tacky, not a full on sweat, but just enough to be noticeable and uncomfortable. His throat is parched making it hard to swallow. He is reminded of the time he woke up in the Louisiana hospital without his Grace, only this time he’s pretty sure he still has his Grace, at least some of it, and he isn’t hooked up to any IVs or monitors.

Castiel reaches in for a closer inspection of his Grace. It is still dim and weak, a small ball of feebly pulsing, opalescent energy, like it had been in Purgatory, but now he notices that a tiny part of his Grace has nearly broken off, connected to his essence by only a very fine filament. The connection is so delicate that he quickly backs off from his examination, worried that it might snap in two by just looking at it. A strange tendril of green coils around the fragile splinter of Grace, strengthening and protecting it. Castiel feels the link between his Grace and the little sliver solidifying; it is a strange sensation. The fragment seems to have become its own entity, walled off by the green light blanketing it, but now solidly attached to his Grace. Before he can further scrutinize this new thing contained in his being, he hears the doorknob rattle. As the door cracks opens, his vision suddenly blurs and he passes out.

Hunger wakes him up later. The room is still bright, but he suspects that more than just a few hours have lapsed. When he opens his eyes, there is an over-bed table across his lap, bearing a tray with a covered dish and a glass of ice water. This is the first time he’s noticed a change in the room. Cautiously, he pulls back the cover, revealing a double-patty cheeseburger dripping with grease and ketchup sitting next to a small mountain of thick-cut steak fries. His mouth waters instantly. He grabs the food, chowing down before it even registers in his mind that he should be suspicious of food that randomly appears in front of him. His growling stomach doesn’t care; it’s just happy to be filled.

As he chews, Castiel takes further stock of his situation. He still has no clue about where he is. The room is quiet except for the soft, study whir of the ventilation system; there is no ambient noise from outside the window or outside the door. He wonders if the room exists on some separate plane. Something about it is too ethereal to be Earth-bound, yet he can’t sense the ever present static of the Host if it’s positioned somewhere in Heaven. It certainly isn’t where he expected to be after the portal closed behind Dean, leaving him behind in Purgatory.

He sets a half-eaten French fry back on the plate and pushes the table away, no longer hungry. Wherever here is, it isn’t where he’s supposed to be. He’s not supposed to be tucked into a comfortable bed enjoying the best burger he has ever put in his mouth (which might not be saying much, since the one and only time he ever ate was when he was under the effects of Famine). This isn’t suffering and pain and despair. One does not atone for one’s sins by simply being shut away in a room with a soft bed to sleep in and good food to eat.

Castiel flips back the covers of the bed, swinging his legs around until his bare feet touch the cool tiled floor below. He is a little surprised when he stands without the slightest wobble. Being in bed for several days doesn’t seem to have affected his physical strength, though he does notice that his Grace is still off kilter. Ignoring the breeze ghosting across his bare backside from the opening of his hospital gown, he takes the half dozen or so steps over to the door, turning the handle. He’s not sure what he expects when he crosses the threshold, but stepping out into nothingness isn’t it. He gasps in shock as the ground disappears beneath his feet, eyes closing involuntarily as he falls.

With a soft thud, he lands face down, somewhere firm and enclosed. He’s afraid to open his eyes, worried about what he’ll see. When his heart finally slows down enough so that the incessant pounding in his ears dies down, he realizes his can hear the muffled sounds of traffic in the not-too-far distance and the soft pat-pat-pat of rain falling onto a metal roof. He can smell the blessedly familiar scents of old leather, stale fast food, and gasoline. A sharp rapping pulls him into the present.

“Hey, buddy. This ain’t the Motel 6. Time to check out before I kick your ass for breaking into my car.”

That voice.

“Dean?” Castiel pushes himself up to sit. He’s in the backseat of the Impala, wearing Jimmy’s trenchcoat and suit. The car seems to be parked at a gas station. He looks up through the rear driver’s side window to see Dean standing outside the car with a paper coffee cup in one hand, staring back at him with an equal amount of surprise.

“Holy shit! Cas!” Dean exclaims in disbelief. He drops his cup, coffee sloshing on his jeans as it falls to the ground, and fumbles with the handle to get the heavy door open.

Big hands grab Castiel by his shoulders, hauling him out of the car and against Dean’s chest. Castiel just stands there crushed to Dean’s warm body, unable to comprehend exactly what just happened. His arms ache to wrap around the other man, but he can’t seem to control his limbs, so he just leans forward into Dean until the other man pulls back to hold him at arm’s length. The smile on Dean’s face is absolutely brilliant, causing the deep lines at the corners of his eyes to crinkle. Castiel hasn’t seen him smile like this since…well…ever. 

Green eyes give the angel a thorough once-over. Castiel is caught by a faint memory of seeing that same shade of green somewhere else, but he can’t quite piece it into a solid recollection.

Castiel’s lack of response to Dean’s hug leads to the other man letting him go. Dean’s smile falters a little as he reaches out to gently cuff him on the shoulder. 

“Where’ve you been, man?”

“I…I don’t know,” he replies, squinting as he tries to remember. 

“Well, you look like death on toast.”

“I don’t believe Death has ever been on toast, Dean.” The thought of toast, burnt and dry in his mouth, makes Castiel’s stomach roil unexpectedly. A feeling of unease grows exponentially with every second that ticks by. He remembers feeling fine before he appeared in the back of the Impala, but now the longer he stands upright, the worse he feels. Suddenly, he has the weird sense that his stomach is quickly rising up as all of the blood in his body rushes down towards his feet. He sways slightly before taking a few unsteady steps along the car’s rear quarter panel and retching in the gravel.

“Hey, hey!” Dean rushes to his side, catching him just as he threatens to tip over face first into the puddle of vomit on the ground. Undisguised concern colors Dean’s voice. “What the hell happened to you?”

Castiel looks down at his hands; they’re shaking uncontrollably. He feels like he’s going to be sick again, and just barely manages to twist in Dean’s grip enough to miss heaving on their shoes.

“I didn’t know angels could throw up,” Dean quips, trying to lighten the tense air between them.

“We don’t.” Castiel wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. “That was the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“Is there something wrong with your vessel?” The hunter eases Castiel over to the open rear door, helping him sit without hitting his head on the car’s roof. 

“I don’t…I don’t think so. It’s not a really vessel anymore.” Jimmy’s soul had been whisked away in the instant before Castiel showed up in Purgatory; he has been alone inside this body ever since. He twists and folds the edge of his coat anxiously between his fingers.

“A-are you human now?” Dean kneels down in front of Castiel, resting a hand on the angel’s knee.

“No. I still have my Grace, but it isn’t functioning properly.” He sighs before lifting his eyes from his lap to look at Dean. “I feel…better for the time being.”

Dean relaxes a little now that he knows Castiel is still an angel and not likely to throw up on them again. He pats Castiel’s knee gently and pushes up to his feet. “You feel up for a little drive?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll go get you some ginger ale.” He motions to the convenience store over his shoulder. “Can’t hurt, in case you start to feel sick. Then I’ll take you home.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean disappears into the store, leaving Castiel still sitting half in and half out of the car. The angel sighs. Little blips of the last few days flash through his mind. He remembers being in the strange, solitary white room. He remembers the fractured part of his Grace bound up in green light. _Green light_. The same color as Dean’s eyes. The same color as Dean’s soul. Closing his eyes, Castiel raises a hand up to his forehead, massaging firmly with his fingertips as though the motion might help him make sense of his weird jumbled memories.

“Here,” Dean says when he returns.

There is a green plastic bottle of Canada Dry held out for him to take. That color is going to torment him until he figures things out. With a sigh, he takes the bottle twisting off the cap.

“Small sips. Don’t want you to barf again.”

He does as instructed, but makes a face at the sharp bite of the soda’s bubbles in his mouth.

“C’mon up front and we’ll get out on the road. Tell me if we need to pull over though. The Impala is a vomit-free zone.” Dean pats his knee again before opening the driver’s side door; the gesture is oddly comforting.

Castiel stands, closes the back door, and walks around the front of the car to reach the passenger’s side. Dean stares at him through the windshield the whole time until he sits down and closes the door behind him, and then the hunter turns with his right arm draped over the back of the seat, a look of confusion on his face. Castiel glances around self-consciously searching for whatever Dean might be looking at before asking, “What?”

“You took the long way around.”

The angel’s brow furrows. “I took the most direct route from the back to the front without climbing over the seat.”

“You didn’t just…,” Dean gestures vaguely, “Poof up here.” 

“Like I said, my Grace isn’t functioning properly.”

“Even for something as simple as zapping from point A three feet over to point B?”

“Apparently,” he replies with a shrug as he takes another sip of the ginger ale. He didn't like the taste at first, but it's starting to grow on him and he can already feel the calming effects of the ginger on his still slightly queasy stomach.

Dean stares at him a moment longer with an unreadable expression before facing the steering wheel and turning the key in the ignition. The big engine roars to life and they pull out onto the two-lane highway heading east. 

After several miles with just the sound of Robert Plant and Jimmy Page quietly coming out of the stereo to break the silence (Dean must be too far into his own thoughts to realize the music isn’t turned up properly), Castiel realizes he has no idea where they are. His Grace is so affected that his internal GPS doesn’t even work. 

“Um…where are we?” He doesn’t turn to see the look of surprise on Dean’s face, but he knows it’s there.

“Kansas. About 30 miles outside Lebanon.”

“The geographical center of the Contiguous United States,” Castiel recalls.

“I should take you to see the marker. Me and Sam have been here for nearly a month and we still haven’t stopped by to see it.”

“What are you doing in Kansas?”

Dean grins, eyes still forward on the road. “A little piece of hunter history fell right into our laps. You ever heard of the Men of Letters?”

Castiel tilts his head. “Yes. It was a secret order of supernatural scholars that disappeared rather suddenly sometime in the middle of the last century.”

“Well, our Grandpa Winchester was one of them.”

“If I recall correctly, Henry Winchester disappeared around the same time as the collapse of the Men of Letters.” Castiel has had an extensive knowledge of the Winchester and Campbell families since he took on the assignment to rescue the Righteous Man from Hell, though he has been restricted in what knowledge he is able to share with the Winchesters.

Dean nods. “Disappeared in 1958, fell out of a motel closet in 2013.”

“Time travel?”

“Bingo.” Dean explains how Henry had whisked himself through time to keep the demon Abaddon from obtaining the key to the Men of Letters’ bunker and all of its knowledge. Henry ended up dying by Abaddon’s hands in front of his grandsons, but Sam and Dean managed to incapacitate her and find the bunker, where they’ve been holed up for the last month looking through all of the treasures collected by the Men of Letters over the centuries. 

“We’re using the bunker as a base of operations. The place is warded against everything, probably the safest place on the planet.” Dean looks particularly proud as he says, “I’ve got my own room, too.”

“Is that where we’re going now?”

“Yep. I was just out on a Costco run.”

“Sam didn’t come with you?” 

Dean laughs. “Sam’s in hog heaven, buried up to his ears in old books. You’d think I was making him cut off a limb whenever I tell him to stop long enough to take a shower or go to bed. There’s no way I’d get him out of the bunker for a whole day just to go on a supply run.”

Castiel furrows a brow, slowly soaking in all of what Dean has been telling him. He begins to realize that more time than he originally thought has passed. “How long has it been since you’ve been out of Purgatory?”

“Over three months.” The levity in Dean’s voice is gone now. His face darkens slightly.

He never would have guessed that so much time had gone by. Of course time moves differently between Heaven, Hell, Earth, and Purgatory, but he has always had an accurate sense of the passage of time on the different planes when he hops around from one to the other. Time in Heaven moves very slow in relation to time on Earth and time in Hell moves much faster than time on Earth. Time in Purgatory is fluid, speeding up and slowing down irregularly. This new piece of information lends further support to the idea that the strange room must not have been on Earth. 

“How long have you been out?” Dean asks, quietly. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies, shaking his head. He remembers the bright light filling Purgatory not too long after the portal closed and the next thing he remembers after that is being in the room.

“How did you get out?”

“I don’t know.”

They ride in silence, staring out of the windshield as the Impala eats up miles of blacktop. Castiel grows increasingly unable to keep up with the thoughts running wild through his head. He can’t get a good grasp on the when, where, why, and how of whatever has happened to him. His thoughts chase round and round, none of them making sense, until he can’t remember their proper order or if any of them are even real memories anymore.

"You're looking a little green over there. You need to stop?” Dean asks abruptly. 

“No. I’m fine.” Castiel hasn’t been aware that Dean was paying him any attention while he drives.

“Drink your drink. We’re almost there.”

Castiel automatically follows the command, taking a few sips without registering the flavor of the liquid on his tongue. He is tired, bordering on completely exhausted; he has felt fatigue before, but never this level of bone-weariness that makes his body feel so heavy. Resting his head against the cool glass of the door, he closes his eyes. If he can’t decipher his thoughts, maybe he can make them stop for just a few minutes. Focusing on the drone of the tires rolling over the asphalt, he manages to clear his mind and settle some of the anxiety making his body uncomfortably tense.

When he feels a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, he realizes he must have fallen asleep. The car has stopped and the engine is quiet. Castiel looks around seeing that they are parked on a gravel service road next to a utility door built into the bottom of the hillside under a tall, concrete industrial building with twin brick smoke-stacks rising high above it.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean says with a little smile. “We’re home.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel’s sure the bunker is interesting, and under normal circumstances he would be brimming with curiosity to explore the Winchesters' new surroundings, but slaking his desire to poke and pilfer isn’t his immediate priority. 

Sam, having heard the heavy steel door opening, heads into the war room to help Dean bring in the bags and boxes of supplies from the car. He stops in disbelief at seeing Castiel hurrying down the stairs. "Hey, Castiel!"

The angel is flushed and it is taking all of his effort not to throw up again. "Bathroom," he demands.

Sam furrows a brow and points. "Down the hall, to the left."

Castiel barely manages to make it to his knees on the floor in front of the toilet before his stomach rebels again. He doesn’t understand; he has eaten very little – just the burger and fries in the room – and has already vomited twice. Shouldn’t his stomach be empty? Several dry heaves later, he reaches up with a shaky hand to push the commode's lever, flushing away the sick. Cool air lifts up from the fresh water refilling the bowl. He crosses his arms on top of the seat, resting his head down on his forearms. 

Something is clearly wrong. Angels are not susceptible to illness or disease. His time in Purgatory must be having some long-lasting effect on his essence. As far as he knows, he is the only angel who has ever been trapped in Purgatory, so he has no knowledge of exactly how Purgatory affects an angel's Grace. Castiel turns inward to look for signs of a curse or some other sort of affliction. His Grace is stronger than it had been after he nearly expended all of it in Purgatory, but something is keeping it from fully unfurling. He searches further, looking for the little broken off fragment he found earlier, and is amazed to discover the small piece has gotten undoubtedly bigger. His Grace is wound around the shard, clutching it tightly, protectively. 

The sound of water hitting the porcelain sink startles him out of his thoughts. He lifts his head quickly and immediately regrets the sudden motion as it makes the world around him waver dangerously; he's thankful he's already sitting on the floor. He sucks in a breath to steady himself, closing his eyes against the tilting room. He feels a cool damp cloth being wiped over his face.

"Still feel bad?" Dean asks, worriedly. 

“Yes,” he replies, scarcely louder than a whisper. Even with his eyes closed, he feels dizzy. When the lightheadedness finally calms down, his skin begins to prickle with heat and sweat. He struggles to untangle himself from his trench coat and suit jacket without causing the vertigo to return. Now that he is conscious of his entirely too human body, he wonders why all the layers of clothing are necessary. 

Dean offers a hand out to him. "C'mon and lay down for a while. You're not in any shape to be up."

He lets himself be pulled to his feet, swaying unsteadily before a strong arm snakes around his waist. Dean helps him down the hall to a bedroom and Castiel makes sure to pay attention to the number of doors they pass so he can make it back to the bathroom if he gets sick again. He collapses on the bed, too weary to protest when Dean starts tugging off his shoes. Just as he drifts off, he feels a warm hand resting against his cheek.

For the rest of the night, Castiel is either actively throwing up or curled up in a sweaty, miserable ball fighting against the urge to throw up. The first few times he manages to make it to the bathroom, but by the end of the night his energy is so drained that he can barely roll over to the edge of the bed to heave into the trashcan. He alternates between kicking off all the covers so the bunker’s naturally cool air can get to his overheated skin and wrapping himself into a papoose with only his nose sticking out from the covers.

Dean is there with him the entire night. In between each wave of sick, the hunter urges him to drink to stay hydrated and to help ease the dry heaves. Castiel quickly grows to despise the sickly sweet fake-lemon flavor of Gatorade, but the cold liquid feels good on his raw throat so he drinks it down with no complaint. The hunter wipes down his sweaty head and neck with a cool cloth and tucks him in when the chills threaten to shake him off of the bed. Dean stays until the nausea finally subsides enough for Castiel to get several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

When he finally wakes up, fighting to open his sleep-crusted eyes, he looks up from the bed and sees Sam sitting at the desk with his head propped against his fist, reading a thick, leather-bound book. Castiel reaches over for the half-empty glass of water sitting on the nightstand. The alarm clock reads 11:16 am.

"Hey, you're awake," Sam says softly as he sticks a slip of bright pink paper between the yellowed pages marking his place before closing the book. He gets up, book in hand, and comes over to sit on the edge of the bed. "How're you feeling?"

He guzzles down the few tepid swallows of water left in the glass, but they do nothing to lessen the horrible taste in his mouth. "Less like dying."

Sam gives him a quiet smile. "Good. You've been out cold for about five hours. Hopefully whatever bug you've been battling has worked its way out of your system."

He doesn’t bother correcting Sam’s assumption that whatever is wrong with him is because of a virus. The issue is certainly bigger than germ-related distress in his human body’s gastrointestinal system. "Where's Dean?"

"Across the hall, in my room. I made him go get some sleep."

Castiel carefully pushes himself to sit up against the headboard of the bed, holding the empty glass between his hands. He glances around the room, noticing it for the first time. The walls are lined with a collection of familiar guns and knives. There's a photo of a blonde lady holding a young blonde boy propped up under the desk lamp and a stack of vintage copies of _Popular Mechanics_ on the nightstand. This is Dean's room, the room he is so proud of. Castiel frowns softly, not liking the idea that the hunter gave up his comfort for him. 

After setting the glass on the bedside table, he roughly rubs his palms over his face. When he opens his eyes again, Sam is staring at him strangely. Castiel gives him a quizzical look, but before he can speak, Sam stands and heads out of the room. "I'll go let him know you're up."

Castiel scoots over to the edge of the bed. A shower seems like a really great idea at the moment. His skin is tacky with sick-sweat and he smells far from pleasant. He reaches up to scratch his scalp, making a face at the greasy, stiff feel of his hair. Carefully, he pushes up to his feet, reaching out to steady himself with a hand against the wall. He isn't dizzy anymore, but he still feels weak. Sam and Dean are standing in the doorway across the hall when Castiel makes his appearance.

Dean’s arms are crossed over his chest and a displeased frown turns down the corners of his mouth, but he brightens when he sees the angel. "Look at you, in the land of the living again."

Castiel gives him a half-smile and motions towards the bathroom. "I need a shower."

"Yeah, sure. Towels are on the shelf. There's extra soap and stuff in the cabinet, and there's probably an extra toothbrush somewhere. Take whatever you need." Dean makes no move to accompany him down the hall to the bathroom. 

The air between Dean and his brother is tense. The two of them had likely been talking about Castiel before he left the bedroom; Castiel had long ago decided to let the Winchesters have their private conversations around corners and in other rooms even though he could easily listen in. He doesn’t blame them for their unease at his sudden appearance when he himself doesn’t even know why he’s back, and there has to be a reason. Good luck and happy coincidences don’t apply to them. With a little nod, he heads off down the hallway to the bathroom.

After fumbling with the shower tap, he closes the curtain to trap the warmth while the water heats up. He strips out of his t-shirt and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Glimpsing his reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, he turns to have a closer look. The sight catches him off-guard. The skin under his tired blue eyes is bruised, purple and gray. His hair is pushed up in a hundred different disheveled directions. His jaw is lined with dark stubble, but the skin beneath is pale, almost deathly so. His face is sunken and thin, and his body is gaunt, knobby joints sticking out noticeably on his arms and legs. However, his lower belly is slightly distended, which looks very odd compared to the rest of him. He runs a hand down his bare side, wondering at the drastic changes in his body. 

"Hey, Cas? I’ve got clothes for you. Can I come in?" Dean calls through the door as he knocks.

Castiel hastily steps over to the shower and closes the curtain behind him before answering. As he pours a measure of bright green Irish Spring shower gel in his hand and begins to soap up his body, he hears Dean moving around the room. Moments later, a towel flops over the curtain rod and Castiel mutters his thanks over the rush of the water. The hot water feels good as it washes away most of the sick feeling lingering on his skin and loosens his taut, achy muscles. He lingers under the steady pounding of the shower for several long minutes after all of the soap has rinsed away, and then he tackles his hair, cursing in Enochian when shampoo drips down into his eyes. 

"You ok in there?" 

He freezes briefly, not realizing Dean is still in the bathroom. "Shampoo in my eye."

“Did you use Sammy’s fruity stuff?”

Castiel sniffs the air, smelling the faint scent of artificial citrus. “Apparently.”

“That shit burns like fire. Use the other bottle next time. It’s tear-free.”

Squinting and still rubbing his offended eye, he glances over to little alcove where the bottles of shampoo and soap are kept. One yellow-capped bottle reads _Johnson’s Baby Shampoo – No More Tears_. “I’m not a baby, Dean.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, man. It makes your hair feel clean without all the extra chemical crap,” he retorts defensively. 

Castiel finishes rinsing all of the residual suds from his hair and body before turning off the water and grabbing for the towel. Using his Grace to clean his vessel is faster, but the feel of immersing his whole body in a spray of warm water is deeply satisfying. When he steps out of the shower stall with the towel wrapped around his waist, Castiel is surprised to see Dean sitting on the toilet lid patiently waiting for him to finish.

At Castiel's look, Dean stands up, eyes shifting away quickly. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to pass out in the shower."

Gripping the towel to keep it securely closed at his hip, Castiel glances over to the sink counter where several things have been laid out: a neon yellow toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a disposable razor, a can of shaving cream, and a stack of neatly folded clothes. 

“Think you can handle things for now?”

“Yes.” He nods and looks back to the other man. “Thank you, Dean.” 

“If you need anything, just holler. Sam’s out in the library and I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

Dean stands in the doorway until Castiel uncaps the toothpaste and begins squeezing it onto the toothbrush. Castiel sends him a pointed look that says _I-know-how-to-brush-my-teeth-Dean_ before he gets the hint and leaves. While he prefers to use his Grace to deal with his vessel’s mundane needs, he does understand how to perform basic care measures. He might brush a little too hard and end up spitting out pink-tinged foam, but at least his mouth doesn’t taste like he ate a decomposing yak anymore.

The clothes Dean left – a gray t-shirt, black sweatpants, thick white socks, and blue plaid boxers – are soft and faded with age. The shirt hangs large on his shoulders and he has to pull the drawstring in the pants tight to keep them up on his hips. Jimmy was never as broad as the Winchesters, but he hadn’t been a small man. His body was lithe and muscular from a two-decade old exercise regimen of running and swimming. He has no idea how he has lost weight or when he lost it; the weight loss seems to be a very recent, almost sudden thing. He holds his hands out observing how thin his fingers have become, the knuckles poking out from his skin. 

If his Grace continues to remain focused in on itself, not providing any support for his body, then he’ll just have to take care of himself like a regular person, granting that he can actually eat something and have it remain his stomach long enough to do any good. With a sigh, he leaves the bathroom, deciding against shaving for the time begin since it requires too much effort and concentration to do without cutting his face to pieces. 

Sam greets him with a smile as he wanders into the library. “Hey, Cas. The couch and TV are on the other side of that bookshelf.” He points off to his left, but doesn’t leave his laptop and piles of books spread out over the length of the reading table.

Castiel likes this room very much. It is large and open, but warm and intimate with its rich wood and brick accents, golden lamp light, and cozy nooks between the bookcases. As much as he would like to look around on his own, he decides the couch is the best place for him at the moment. A pillow and a red and black plaid blanket are waiting there for him. A tiny black and white TV sits on a stand near one end of the couch. The picture is slightly fuzzy, but is clearly showing an old episode of _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ He missed TV while he was in Purgatory. The best part of his day in the mental institution and then later at the Winchesters’ safehouse in the woods had been sitting in front of the TV watching whatever was on; he never had time develop a preference for one type of show over another. 

By the time Castiel is resting comfortably on the couch under the blanket and getting very interested in a commercial advertising something called a _Snuggie_ , Dean walks out of the kitchen with a loaded tray.

“I brought you some food. Didn’t know what you might feel like eating, so I just brought all the stuff I bring Sam when he’s sick.” He sets the tray down on the low coffee table in front of the couch. There is a bowl of steaming golden broth and fat noodles, a banana, a sleeve of saltines, and a single-serving size cup of applesauce, as well as a bottle of Gatorade and a mug of hot tea. “Go slow and don’t try to eat all of it. We don’t want you to start throwing up again.”

The smell of the savory broth sets Castiel’s stomach to growling like a starved tiger. It is annoying that he has to eat when he doesn’t particularly want to just because his body now requires the nourishment. He tries a bite of everything before settling back into the corner of the couch with the warm soup bowl tucked up close to his chest.

When Castiel is nearly halfway through the soup, Dean sits down on the edge of the couch by his feet, watching him carefully blow on a spoonful of noodles and broth before eating it. “Remember anything about what happened to you before yesterday?”

Castiel can see Sam perk up at Dean’s question. Obviously, the brothers have been itching to start the interrogation. It’s nothing less than anticipated; they’ve always wanted to know where he’s been and what he’s been up to whenever he returns to them after an unexpected absence. In the past he has lied or not told the full truth, and while he has vowed not to lie to them again, he worries that they won’t believe him when he says, “Not much.”

“So you shoved me through the portal and then just showed up in the backseat of my car four months later?” Dean asks flatly. 

He sits up, putting the bowl down on the coffee table. This is not a conversation to have while trying to eat, and if Dean is ready to talk, then Castiel isn’t going to deny him the opportunity.

“Why didn’t you come with me, Cas?” His voice is quiet, as though he doesn’t want his brother to hear how much it hurt to leave Castiel behind. He looks at the angel, imploringly, not understanding why he would have chosen to stay in Purgatory after they fought so hard to get out. “I could have pulled you through. You were right there.”

“I didn’t want to leave you, Dean, but I had to stay.” Castiel looks down at his empty hands, still seeing the red blood, the black oil, and the milky glow of angel essence staining them. “I had to do my penance for what I did against my brothers and sisters, for what I unleashed on the Earth.”

“So, no explanation, no ‘ _Goodbye Dean_ ’, nothing?” He lowers his voice even more. It’s sad and soft when he speaks. “I just...I just thought we…” He shakes his head, abandoning his train of thought and heading back into debriefing mode. “What happened after the portal closed?”

Castiel sighs. He knew Dean wouldn’t like his decision, but he never thought Dean would have been so affected by it. “More Leviathan attacked me, but then there was a massive flare that obliterated everything in sight.”

“Did you set off another Grace bomb?”

“No. My Grace was all but gone by then. This thing was much bigger than anything I’ve ever been able to accomplish. It was like a supernova.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows in surprise. Sam wanders over to listen, leaning against a bookcase with his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I must have been knocked out, because after that I woke up in a room, alone.” 

“A room?” Sam asks.

Shrugging, he replies, “It seemed like a hospital room, but I never saw anybody, never heard anything. I couldn’t sense anything about the place, where it was located or who was there. I don’t know how long I was there. It felt like only a few days, but it’s clear to me now that I must have been there much longer.” 

The brothers exchange a look. They’ve all had their fair share of being whisked away to mysterious rooms, backwards or forwards in time, and to different dimensions. The culprit has always been the same.

“This whole thing reeks of dick angels,” Dean says spitefully. 

Castiel nods as he toys with the fringe along the edge of the blanket laid across his lap. “Yes, but I can’t figure out why any of them would want to save me.”

The sudden swish of wings alerts the trio to the presence of another angel in the bunker. The Winchester brothers move in tandem to shield the couch and Castiel.

A familiar, golden haired archangel sits atop the bookcase to their left, twirling a Tootsie Pop in one hand. With a grin, Gabriel exclaims, “Mazel tov on the little Winchester on the way, Dean-o!”


	4. Chapter 4

“What?” Sam and Dean ask simultaneously. 

“Oh, should I do this New Testament-style?” Gabriel asks with a grin as he hops down from the bookcase, half eaten grape Tootsie Pop disappearing from his hand. His body begins to glow faintly. The air sizzles and cracks and the light bulbs in the desk lamps explode as the hazy outline of six massive wings emerges, nearly filling the length of the room. “Fear not, for I bring tidings of great joy! The Righteous Man has knocked somebody up!”

Dean just blinks, his body still tense from the appearance of an intruder in the middle of their sanctuary.

Sam’s eyes cut between his brother and the not-dead archangel. 

Castiel shrinks back into the corner of the couch, realization dawning on him. His night with Dean. The piece of his Grace wrapped up in green light. But, it isn’t possible. It can’t be. 

Dean scowls. “Not funny, Gabriel. I haven’t hooked up with a girl in over a year. Purgatory wasn’t exactly the best place to pick up chicks.”

Gabriel cocks his head to the side, brow furrowing in confusion. “Purgatory?”

“Yeah, me and Cas ganked the Leviathan wearing Dick Roman and got sucked into Purgatory." He quickly changes the subject. "How are you even here? Lucifer stabbed you in the gut with an angel sword.”

The archangel waves a hand, dismissively. “You really think I’d have made a name for myself as the Trickster all these centuries if I couldn’t pull one over on my own brother?”

“So, you just disappeared?” Sam pins him with a hard look.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “Everything worked out fine in the end, right? Apocalypse averted.”

“With Sam dragging Lucifer back to Hell!” Dean yells, clearly angry at Gabriel's apathy. “Don’t you have any idea what’s happened since then? All the shit we’ve been through.”

“Not my problem. I chose a long time ago to stay out of the affairs of Heaven. It’s been one gigantic bureaucratic orgy since Dad disappeared.”

“With Raphael dead, and Michael and Lucifer down in the cage, aren’t you the next in line to take over? Couldn’t you have fixed things?” Sam asks.

“They couldn't. What makes you think I'd be any better? Anyway, I’m not here to debate Heavenly politics. I’m here to celebrate!” Pale pink and blue streamers suddenly crisscross the air between the library’s columns as dozens of balloons float up towards the ceiling. A massive, five-tiered cake decorated with pacifiers and baby booties materializes in the middle of the library table; a blown-sugar stork with a bundle hanging from its beak stands on the top tier. Party hats appear on top of Sam’s and Dean’s heads. Grinning, Gabriel blows a noisemaker. 

Dean rips off the cardboard hat, throwing it on the floor, and points at finger in Gabriel’s direction. He looks distinctly uncomfortable with Gabriel’s insistence that he’s soon to become a father. “I don’t know where you got your information, but there’s no way I got some girl pregnant.”

With the powder blue blow-out drooping from his mouth, Gabriel fumbles around his jacket pockets until he pulls out a scroll. He unrolls it, spitting out the noisemaker and squinting as he reads. “It says here that Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, and…hmm…this part is smudged…have joined together to conceive a…this part is missing too.” The angel sighs. “Well, I have been away from Heaven for a while, so the connection isn’t as clear as it used to be.” He continues to squint at the parchment as though doing so will make what’s written there any clearer.

"I thought you said you didn’t want to have anything to do with Heaven anymore,” Dean reminds him.

"Delivering divine messages to the unsuspecting is part of my programming.” Gabriel taps his temple with the tip of his index finger. “It’s the one thing I can’t _not_ do.” 

“Cas, you got any insight into this?” Sam glances over to the couch where Castiel has been silently observing everything.

“Cas?” Gabriel asks, craning his neck to look around the Great Wall of Winchester blocking his view of the couch. He spies his brother curled up on the couch and his face brightens with a happy grin. “Hey, little brother! I didn’t see you there.” He stops and frowns immediately. “Wait. How did I not see you there?” 

The archangel quickly crosses over to the couch, shoving Sam and Dean out of his way. 

“Hello, Gabriel,” Castiel says as his brother leans down uncomfortably close to scrutinize him.

Gabriel narrows his eyes, studying him intently. The look is strangely serious on the Trickster’s normally jovial face. Castiel chews on his lower lip, not wanting his brother to confirm his growing suspicion that _he_ is the one Dean knocked up. His heart pounds in his chest as the seconds tick away. He glances over to Dean, who is staring at him with a furrowed brow, before flicking his eyes over to Sam, whose face open and curious.

“Oh, Cassie.” Gabriel’s expression softens as he reaches out to pat Castiel’s cheek. His smile is tender, losing all of its usual cockiness. “This is even better than when I got to spring news of the Immaculate Conception on Mary.” He turns and looks at Dean, waggling his brows suggestively at the hunter. “Well, Dean-o, you’re right about not getting some girl pregnant.”

“Hold on a minute,” Sam says as he looks between his brother and Castiel. Dean’s eyes are glued to the floor, the tips of his ears bright red, and Castiel is staring down at his lap, tying knots into the blanket’s fringe. “Are you saying that…?”

“Yep. These two are expecting a bouncing baby nephilim.” Gabriel frowns again as he continues to study his brother. “You look horrible.”

“Thanks.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You should be…well, as cliché as it sounds…you should be glowing, but you’re not.” 

“I’ve been ill since I showed up here yesterday.”

“Ill? Haven’t you been here with Dean all along?”

“No. I remained in Purgatory after Dean left.” 

Gabriel throws an accusatory glare over his shoulder to Dean. “You left your pregnant mate in Purgatory?”

Dean still looks stunned at the news. His mouth opens and closes several times before he can wrap himself up in enough indignant irritation to respond. “A – I didn’t know he was...p-pregnant and B – he left me, not the other way around.”

“Wait,” Sam interrupts. “How did this happen?”

“They had sex. Duh, Samsquatch.” 

Sam pales.

“Hey! That’s private info, dumbass,” Dean retorts hotly.

Castiel sighs. Angels can obviously use their vessels to have sex with humans; Gabriel and Balthazar are prime examples of angels with monstrous libidos. The archangel would have populated his own race of nephilim by now if he had the ability to have children. Sex between angels and humans has always been frowned upon, but it has never been strictly forbidden. Reproduction, on the other hand, is at the top of the list of _Things Angels Must Not Do_. They were not designed to procreate with each other or with humans. While conception between a human and an angel is not completely impossible, it might as well be. It has happened only a handful of times over the whole of human history, and each time it did all parties involved were struck down by God (of course, that was during God’s vengeful/wrathful/not-a-nice-guy phase during the Old Testament). 

“Gabriel, you know it’s not as easy as that,” Castiel argues.

“Happens easy enough when a human’s soul and an angel’s Grace are already entwined.” The soft look returns to the archangel’s face as he turns back to Castiel. “You laid your claim on Dean’s soul when you pulled him out of Hell, and his soul grabbed ahold of you and decided it was never going to let go.”

“There’s more to it than just laying a claim.”

Gabriel suddenly seems to understand something nobody else does and he snorts out a laugh. “You two are the most emotionally constipated beings I’ve ever known.”

The short angel stands up and brushes past Sam, grabbing hold of the taller man’s elbow. “C’mon, Sammy. These two obviously need to have a long talk. Let’s go find a Dunkin’ Donuts or a Dairy Queen, or better yet both!”

Sam stutters and protests, but ultimately follows Gabriel up the stairs. The heavy steel door clangs shut behind them and the bunker is abruptly silent. All traces of the party decorations have disappeared, except for two slices of multi-layered, heavily frosted cake sitting on the library table where the whole cake had been standing only minutes ago.

Dean hasn’t moved. Castiel doesn’t know how to start the conversation, or if he even should. There’s too much to say. They haven’t spoken about their last night in Purgatory, not that they’ve had time to. Castiel doesn’t even know if Benny made it out ok or what the Winchesters have been doing for the past four months other than the hunt that led them to the bunker, and he’s pretty sure there’s a whole Sam/Dean reunion story that is just waiting to be told. 

Dean lifts his right hand to scratch at his left shoulder, and Castiel wonders if he is conscious of the gesture. The physical mark of Castiel’s claim is no longer on the hunter’s body; it disappeared after the angel healed Dean from Lucifer’s savage beating in Stull Cemetery. He sits down heavily at the opposite end of the couch, not looking at Castiel.

Taking a deep breath, the hunter says, "I’ve come to realize that one day our show is gonna get cancelled, permanently, no coming back. And I don't want that to happen before..." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "You’re family, Cas. We've all done things we shouldn't have, but in the end we forgive each other and move on. I don't care if you're on Heaven's Most Wanted List. You belong here with us…with me.”

The angel nods quietly, unable to speak. 

“When the portal spit me out…” Dean clears his throat. When he continues, his voice is thick with all of the emotions pre-Purgatory Dean Winchester would have vehemently shoved down deep and ignored. “I haven’t felt pain like that since…since Hell. It was like something inside me snapped in two. And it hurt for a long time after that. I was a wreck when Sammy finally found me a week later in Rufus’s cabin. As soon as I saw you yesterday, that pain went away." Dean turns and looks at him. "I…I need you, Cas.”

Castiel swallows hard. He remembers that same pain and being surprised at how intense it was. There is a dull ache building behind his eyes, spreading up to his forehead, and when he blinks he feels something wet fall down his cheek. Dean shifts closer, reaching out to take Castiel’s face in his hands. His thumb brushes against his skin. 

“Please don’t leave again. Stay with me?” He sounds so young, so vulnerable, so scared to ask for something he wants, when all the things he has ever wanted have been ripped away from him. "Whatever's going on right now...whatever we've done...we'll get through it together. Ok?"

Castiel lifts his hands to place them on the backs of Dean's where they cup his face. He savors the other man's touch, tender and warm, showing a side of the hunter that less than a handful of people have ever been allowed to see. Castiel might not get all the subtle nuisances of human communication, the double entandres, the hidden meanings, but he knows that in Dean-speak phrases like _You're Family_ and _I need you_ mean only one thing, and that the one thing is what made the creation of a nephilim possible.

"I'll stay." Closing his eyes, he places his hands on Dean's face, pulling him in close so that their foreheads touch. Dean moves and Castiel feels the tentative brush of the hunter's full lips against his. A shiver runs up his spine as the tendrils of his Grace reach out and latch on Dean's soul again. Calm and peace wash over him, easing the tension from his sick body, filling him with a sense of things finally being right, of being home. He returns Dean's kiss, softly, letting it speak his love.

They settle down into the couch together, Castiel lying on top of Dean with his head pillowed on the hunter's shoulder. He's still tired, still half-sick, but his heart soars and he feels the weight of his past lifting from his shoulders. Dean cards the fingers of one hand through Castiel’s hair while his other hand rests at his hip, holding him as though he'll never let go. For the first time, Castiel is aware of the nephilim for what it actually is, wrapped up cozy and safe in his Grace. It isn't just a broken off piece of him; it is an extension of him and Dean, its own being, still small, but beginning to lose its fragileness. He senses it responding to Dean's return, tugging firmly at the ribbons that tie Castiel's Grace and Dean's soul together.

"Cas," Dean says with wonder coloring his voice. 

"You can feel it?" Castiel leans back to look at Dean.

"Yeah," he breathes softly. "What is it?"

“The nephilim. It's connected to one parent’s soul and the other’s Grace. The connection is what sustains it until it is fully formed. Our connection was severed when we were separated...that's the pain you felt. I felt it, too.”

"And, now it's reconnecting?"

He nods.

Dean's hand slips under his shirt, palm resting against the bare skin of Castiel's waist. "So, last night was one long episode of morning sickness?" 

"It would seem so," he replies as he lowers his cheek back down to Dean’s chest. "I think my Grace has been working overtime to support the nephilim on its own and hasn't been able to maintain my body at the same time resulting in the illness. That must also be why my Grace didn't seem to be recovering properly and why Gabriel couldn't sense me when he arrived."

Dean hums softly in response as he wraps his arms more securely around the angel. Too much has happened to fully understand at the moment. Only some of their questions have been answered and most of those answers have only led to new questions. But, for now, Castiel just wants to bask in Dean's warmth, soak up his affection. His Grace sings out to Dean's soul, their connection strengthening and pulsing brightly around this new thing created between them. He lets himself be lulled into the security that Dean wants him, that Dean loves him and he loves Dean.

That's how Gabriel and Sam find them several hours later - fast asleep on the couch, unashamedly wrapped up in each other.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re not your usual happy-go-lucky self,” Sam says, gesturing across the booth to Gabriel, who has been uncommonly quiet since they left the bunker in search of sweets. There are no Dunkin Donuts or Dairy Queens in tiny, rural Lebanon, Kansas. There’s not even a McDonalds within the city limits. But there is a greasy spoon truck stop a few miles north of town on Highway 281 that Dean swears has the best Boston cream pie in the country.

The archangel swirls his spoon around in the cup that Sam’s pretty sure has more sugar in it than coffee. Caramel colored eyes flick across the room, eyeing the half dozen patrons sitting at the other booths and at the counter. He tracks a dark-haired waitress with huge, high breasts straining against the buttons of her uniform as she walks over to the cash register near the door to ring up an older couple.

A short, pudgy bleach-blonde waitress on the wrong side of 50 stops by their booth, pulling a pencil from her overly starched beehive. “What’ll it be?” she demands with her pencil poised over the half-empty order pad in her hand.

“Pie,” Gabriel replies with a smile, perking up for the first time since he and Sam entered the diner.

“Apple, blueberry, Boston cream, strawberry, or lemon meringue?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” She raises a heavily arched, painted brow.

Sam sighs. “I think he means one of each.”

The angel winks up at the waitress, eyeing her up and down as though she is the most beautiful woman on the planet. 

“Uh,” she stammers and, surprisingly, flushes bright pink under Gabriel’s appreciative gaze. “Sure thing.”

“Thanks. You’re a peach…” He makes a show of squinting up at the name tag pinned to the waitress’s pale blue uniform, still grinning. “Jolene.”

She shuffles back towards the kitchen, but not before taking several overly long seconds to stare at Gabriel with a very puzzled look on her face.

“Dude, you have weird tastes in women,” Sam observes from the rim of his coffee mug as he watches their waitress leave.

Gabriel gets a faraway look on his face and smiles. “I remember Miss Jolene Noelle Richardson from a much different time.”

Jolene returns from the kitchen with a round tray bearing five plates holding five slices from five different pies. She sets them out on the red Formica tabletop, her eyes shifting between the motion of her hand and Gabriel’s face as though she’s trying to suss out whether or not she knows him. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

“No, thanks. We’re good.” Sam says with a polite smile, waiting to turn the conversation away from pie and waitresses.

She leaves again and Sam watches Gabriel’s eyes wistfully following her. 

“Not to disrupt your little trip down memory lane, but I get the feeling that what’s going on between our brothers is a little more complicated than setting up a baby registry at Target.”

Gabriel blinks, tearing his eyes away from Jolene and back to Sam. He lays both palms flat on the table, muttering a soft word Sam doesn’t understand under his breath. His eyes flash white as a gentle puff of air bursts outward from him. Sam recoils involuntarily, eyes furtively darting around the diner to see if anybody felt the strange breeze. No one else seems to have noticed. In fact, everybody, from the customers huddled around their plates of food to the fry cook on the other side of the order window, seems frozen in place. The black-haired waitress stands across the counter from a scruffy man in a trucker hat pouring coffee into his mug, only the coffee is static in the air, hanging just a few inches above the rim of the cup like a curl of brown satin ribbon. Sam looks back at Gabriel, who just shrugs.

“Can’t take the chance of being overheard. Everybody in here’s 100% human, but you never know who or what might be listening in.”

Sam leans forward, arms crossed on top of the table. “Are Dean and Cas in danger?”

Of course Sam knows the answer to that question. When are he, his brother, and the angel ever not in danger? This is just a totally new level of _what-the-hell-have-we-fallen-into-now_. 

“Yes,” Gabriel nods, picking at the crust on the apple pie with his fork. “But I don’t know how imminent the threat is. What do you know about nephilim, Sam?”

“We’ve never come across one before. I haven’t seen much lore on them. I remember finding a few lines about the nephilim in the Bible when we were researching angels after you guys starting showing up down here, something about them being the offspring of the sons of God and the daughters of man. There was something else about them being giants, maybe. It was all kinda vague.”

“There’s not a lot written because over the whole of human history there have only been six nephilim created and they were all destroyed, along with their parents, before they were even born.”

Sam’s eyes widen in panic and Gabriel rushes to continue, lifting his hand in a placating gesture. “But, those were back in Dad’s wrathful-god days.”

“So, God’s now on board with the whole angel-human baby? Cas said he couldn’t find God.” 

“If anything, this is more proof that he’s around somewhere, just not in Heaven. Look, I never would have gotten the message if it wasn’t sanctioned by our Father. All of the messages I deliver come directly from him, even if they do get a little garbled because neither of us are directly connected to the Host anymore. Trust me, if the little guy tucked up in Castiel wasn’t meant to be, then conception would never have happened.”

Sam leans back against the vinyl seat and furrows a brow. “What made him change his mind?”

“Why is Dean the Righteous Man? Why was Castiel’s garrison picked to be the one to rescue him from Hell? Why have both of them had more lives than a damn cat? Because Dad is captain of the _SS Destiel_.”

“The what?”

“Guess you’ve never gotten bored enough to go trolling the World Wide Web for fan-fiction written about your brother and his blue-eyed angel.”

Sam remembers well the one and only time he and his brother had stumbled upon stories based on the _Supernatural_ books Chuck had written. It had been disturbing to say the least. He shudders to think about Becky and her fanaticism for something more than brotherly love between the Winchesters.

As if reading his thoughts, Gabriel laughs. “There are probably more Dean-slash-Castiel stories than Sam-slash-Dean ones out there now. There’s even a small, but devoted following of people who ship Sabriel.”

Sam’s face draws up in confusion before he figures it out. His eyes widen in horror. “Oh god.”

Gabriel waggles his brows at him cheekily, but sighs when Sam pales. “Oh c’mon, Sam. I’m not gonna jump your bones. I haven’t swung that way in a very long time. Not that I’d be opposed.” There’s a slight upward inflection, a suggestion hidden in his last sentence.

Sam just shakes his head and steers the conversation back to the matter at hand. “So, nephilim?”

The look on the archangel’s face becomes serious again. “Formerly forbidden children of angels and humans. They are part soul, part Grace. A little more than human, a little less than angel. Genetics are involved too, but that’s just the mundane part that makes up the child’s vessel. God made it nearly impossible for an angel and a human to procreate. There has to be a very strong bond between the angel’s Grace and the human’s soul.”

Sam snorts a dry laugh and hooks his fingers up in air quotes. “Their ‘profound bond’?

“Exactly, but Cassie was right – it takes more than just that bond and the physical act of sex to create a nephilim.” 

"Love,” Sam states simply. He’d caught those long, soul-searching looks between his brother and the angel more than once, not to mention the look of relief and happiness on Dean’s face whenever Cas comes back from poofing off to do angel business without them. Two guys who are _just friends_ don’t look at each other like that. 

“Bingo,” Gabriel confirms with a soft smile. “More importantly, love that didn’t have any help from a cupid. That kind of love is exceedingly rare.” 

“Well, that explains a lot.” Sam relaxes a bit, shoulders slumping slightly as though some weight has been lifted off of them. 

The angel quirks a brow in silent question.

“Dean was…he was broken when I found him after he got out of Purgatory. It was worse than coming back from Hell. His first couple of weeks back were bad, reminded me of when I detoxed from the demon blood. Pain, hallucinations...he had a seizure so bad he quit breathing for a full minute.” Sam’s eyes go a little wild as he relives the memory of his brother seized up on the floor of Rufus’s cabin, stiff as a board, chest not moving. “I was so scared that everything he’d been through had finally completely destroyed him. He seemed to get over it, enough so that he could function, but he still wasn’t Dean.”

Gabriel nods with a soft exhale. “That bond they have is just as physical as it is incorporeal. When it gets severed, it’s like cutting off a limb. I’m actually surprised Dean was strong enough to survive it.”

Sam swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully in this throat. “But it should be better for them now, right? Now that they’re back together?”

“That’s why I dragged you out of there.” The angel smiles. “They’ve got to reestablish that connection on their own without any help from us. It could take a few seconds or it could take years, but I think they’re both so desperate for each other that they won’t keep their feelings bottled up for too long.”

Just a few years ago Sam would have scoffed at the idea of his brother opening up to anybody. But, Dean’s hopelessness after losing Castiel might just be what drives him to making sure the angel knows his true feelings.

“I hope you’re right,” Sam says, glancing out of the window. There’s a pigeon in mid-flight, mid-poop hovering over the hood of a beat-up Ford pickup truck. “So, what’s going to happen to Cas?”

“There’s the rub,” Gabriel replies hesitantly. “Since there’s never been a human or an angel allowed to carry a nephilim, I have no idea how the whole thing works.” He scratches his cheek. “If it was a human female or an angel in a female vessel, then I would guess it’d work like a normal human pregnancy. But, Castiel is obviously in a male vessel with no womb. For now, the baby’s just an essence, contained in his Grace, but at some point it will start to generate a body and that body will have to have somewhere to grow. My best guess is that his Grace will create a space for the child. Whether that space is in the physical plane or the one where our Grace resides, I can’t say.”

Several disturbing images of a heavily pregnant, very male Castiel run through Sam’s mind. He shuts his eyes temporarily, but the images are not so easily dispelled. 

“He’s pretty vulnerable right now. His Grace is so wrapped up in the nephilim that he’s basically human.” Gabriel’s eyes dart around the diner where everybody is still motionless as statues. “While God might be ok with this, our brethren won’t be when they find out, and they will find out sooner or later. Castiel’s not well liked upstairs.”

“Don’t we know.” Sam huffs a nervous breath.

“Seraph aren’t used to favoritism and Cassie is clearly one of Dad’s favorites. He’s done a lot of things angels aren’t supposed to do and keeps getting forgiven where others who have done much less wrong have been cast out.” Gabriel sighs worriedly. “We should be ok for a while. I’m sure something would have happened by now if Heaven was aware of the nephilim. I can set up extra protections on the bunker, but he’ll have to lay low for the next few months. I’ll keep an ear out on angel radio, give you guys a heads up if anything’s coming your way.”

“Why are you helping us now? You didn’t care too much about stopping the apocalypse.” Sam furrows a brow.

“Dad’s not the only one who has favorites.” He shrugs, leaving it at that.

They sit in silence for several long minutes, each half-heartedly picking at the slices of pie laid out on the table. Sam stares at the open lattice work of pastry strips on top of the blueberry pie as though it holds all of the answers to their current predicament. They still have to deal with translating the demon tablet. Kevin has been squirreled away in an abandoned church in Iowa with the tablet for the past year. The Winchesters and Garth regularly check in on him, but Sam and Dean have recently discussed bringing the prophet to the bunker where they can keep a closer eye on him and give him company (Sam knows all too well how isolation affects the mind). The last time they talked to Kevin he alluded to the tablet possibly explaining how to permanently close the gates of Hell. If that information gets out, then Crowley will stop at nothing to get his hands on the tablet.

Sam nearly jumps out of his seat when Jolene appears at the table with a pot of coffee in hand and begins to refill their cups. He hadn’t felt the shift when time started up again.

Before the waitress walks away, Gabriel orders a whole Boston cream pie to take back to the bunker as a peace offering. After the pie is delivered to the table in a plain white paper box, the archangel throws two crisp $100 bills on the table. At Sam’s incredulous look, he just shrugs. “She’s raising three grandkids on her own.”

Gabriel slides out of the booth, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket dislodging any stray pie crumbs. “C’mon, gigantor. Our brothers should have kissed and made up by now.” 

*****

The sound of a camera flash going off is what brings Dean out of his doze. It isn’t quite enough to make him open his eyes until he hears a second digital shutter snap and finally becomes conscious enough to feel the heavy weight pressing down on his chest making it hard to take deep breath. With a half-panicked jerk, he nearly dislodges Castiel from his comfortable position on top of him, but tightens his arms around the angel just in time to keep him in place. The other man grumbles in protest at the sudden movement of his bed.

Glancing up, he sees Gabriel and Sam looming a few feet away with cellphones held out. He glowers at both of them as he carefully helps Castiel sit up, tugging the blanket out of the corner of the couch and spreading it over his legs. The look on Gabriel’s face reminds Dean of whenever he catches Sam looking at puppy videos online, too fondly amused at something cute. 

“Mom and Dad aren’t breaking up, are they?” Gabriel asks.

Dean places a blatant possessive kiss to the top of Castiel’s head before glaring a challenge at his brother and the archangel. When they both raise their hands in submission and keep their mouths closed, he stalks off to the kitchen, ignoring Gabriel who tags along with a box in his hand. 

He isn’t ashamed of his feelings for Cas – not when finally fessing up to them feels so right and good, like all the tizzy things spiraling out of control inside him have finally calmly fallen into place – but 30-plus years of indoctrination about who he’s supposed to be and how he’s supposed to act aren’t easily undone over a few hours. He’s not going to suddenly turn into a touchy-feely, doe-eyed, baby-talking, head-over-heels-in-love guy by any stretch of the imagination.

Gabriel clears his throat from the doorway.

“Yeah, I know you’re there.” He doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder to acknowledge the archangel as he pilfers through the cabinet over the sink to grab coffee mugs.

“I brought you pie from that diner outside of town.” He lifts up the box, looking very much like a little kid who is very proud of himself for being considerate without being asked.

“Trying to butter me up for something? I’m not going to kick Cas out, you know.” Dean fills the coffee pot with water from the sink before pouring it into the back of the coffee maker sitting on the counter. The brand new Mr. Coffee had been one of their first purchases after discovering the bunker. One of them, usually Sam, always sets it before going to bed so they have coffee ready to go when they wake up. Another pot or two gets brewed later every day. Dean doesn’t miss the look of approval he gets from his little brother whenever he sits down at the library table with a stout ceramic cup of Joe instead of a glass of cheap whiskey (not that he didn’t get a little verklempt over the beauty of the different bottles of aged amber liquid all lined up together when he discovered the Men of Letters’ liquor cabinet, but those are worth savoring over a special occasion, not downing just to feel the burn when he’s in a bad mood). 

“No, no. Of course not,” Gabriel says defensively. “Look, Dean, I’m offering an olive branch here. I know you don’t trust me, but I care about Castiel. He’s my brother and there’s not much I wouldn’t do for him.”

Dean turns around, planting his hip against the edge of the counter, and crosses his arms over his chest. “You didn’t care enough to stop him when he let the Leviathan out of Purgatory.”

Gabriel sighs. “That was a mistake.”

The archangel sets the pie box down on the table and leaves the kitchen. Dean stares at the white box. Brothers. Family. That’s what everything has always been about to him. Cas is family and by extension Gabriel is family too (of course, technically so is the whole Host of Heaven, but since the vast majority of them are dicks, Dean’s more than happy to leave them out). Well, Cas can decide whether or not Gabriel will be allowed to hang around, and if he says no, then Dean will gladly trap the archangel in a ring of burning holy oil down in the bowels of the bunker. 

The coffeemaker rumbles as the last of the water filters through the grounds in the filter, and Dean pours two mugs full before heading back out to the library where Gabriel is mentioning something about the bunker’s wards.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is very short and soooo long in coming. It goes without saying that I have been very distracted by other stories and this one has gotten left by the wayside. I have no plans to abandon this story (or any of my other WIPs); I just get slow sometimes.
> 
> This chapter is unfortunately short because I need to finish up this particular scene before moving on. I was trying to keep the chapters in the 3000+ word range, but sometimes that just isn't feasible. I'm being more lenient with myself when it comes to chapter length.

“I’m impressed with the level of warding on this place,” Gabriel says from his vantage point in the walkway between the library and the war room.  He drags his fingertips along the intricately carved molding surrounding the doorway.  To anybody not in-the-know, the dozens of symbols and glyphs inlayed in the floors, walls, and ceilings of the bunker look like unusual, but beautiful decorations.  “But, there are some flaws.”

 

“Obviously,” Dean retorts with a frown as he walks in from the kitchen, a coffee mug in each hand.  He walks over to the couch where Castiel is still curled up.  He looks like he finally feels better despite the wide yawn currently causing his jaw to pop.  “Didn’t keep you out.”

 

Gabriel ignores Dean.  “I can make it better, take you off the map completely so that only the people you give the location to will be able to find it and only the people you have explicitly invited will be allowed past the front door.”

 

“What?  Like Grimmauld Place in _Order of the Phoenix_?” Sam asks looking up from his laptop with a raised brow.

 

“Exactly!” Gabriel exclaims with a gleeful smile.  “You know, there’s a little more truth than fiction in JK’s make-believe world.”

 

Castiel furrows a brow until Dean nudges his shoulder, offering him one of the mugs.

 

“Looks like your brother’s just as big a nerd as mine.”

 

“Oh.”  Castiel wraps his hands around the warm mug before taking a tentative sip, testing the temperature.  He learned his lesson about eating hot things after burning his tongue on the first spoonful of soup earlier.

 

“Anyway,” Gabriel continues undeterred, “I can put up some extra wards.  Really powerful stuff.  Angel, demon, human, whatever, won’t be able to override the protection I offer.”

 

“What about you?” Dean asks as he plops down on the couch at Castiel’s feet, hissing slightly when hot coffee sloshes over the rim of his mug onto his fingers.  “Would you be able to get back in?”

 

“Yes, but I wouldn’t be able to bring anybody with me.  Permission to enter has to be granted by a blood-giver,” he says casually as Dean takes his first sip of coffee.

 

Dean nearly chokes.  “A what now?” 

 

“A blood-giver.  You know?  For a blood-ward,” Gabriel states as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“Yeah, you left that little detail out,” he grouses hoarsely.

 

“Powerful spells always call for blood.”  Gabriel tsks softly, shaking his head dramatically.  “And, you call yourself a Winchester.” 

 

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs as he sets his coffee mug down on the floor by the couch.  “So, are we talking a drop or a gallon?”

 

“A little prick will do.”  Gabriel gets a devilish gleam in his eye, but Dean’s glare deflates him pretty quickly.  He mutters about Dean not being able to take a joke as his sword drops down into his hand.

 

“What’s in it for you?” Dean asks skeptically, eyeing Gabriel’s blade carefully. 

 

“Nothing,” Gabriel hedges as he bends over to get a closer look at one of the medallions set into the floor.  “Just get over here.”

 

Dean grudgingly gets up from the couch after sharing a look with Castiel, one of those looks where a million things are said without a single word being spoken – namely, _if your brother does something stupid I’m gonna trap his ass in holy fire in one of the locked storage rooms downstairs and conveniently forget where I put the key_.  Castiel trusts Gabriel and has always trusted him above Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, or any other angel.  Though he doesn’t seem it, Gabriel is one of the most loyal angels God ever created.  Plus, they couldn’t ask for a more powerful ally against anything Heaven might throw at them than an archangel.

 

The hunter crosses the library to stand in front of Gabriel.

 

“Finger or arm, your choice,” Gabriel says holding out his free hand to take whatever body part Dean offers to him.

 

Dean extends his bared left forearm, gesturing towards the thick white scar marring the inside of his arm.  The skin there has been cut open so many times that he doesn’t even flinch when Gabriel carefully draws the razor sharp tip of his sword along the scar opening it up.  A single drop of blood slides down the curve of his arm, hanging on for a fraction of a second before it plummets to the floor, landing right in the center of the bronze Aquarian star set in a large marble medallion.  With a soft puff of warm wind that expels outward from where Gabriel and Dean are standing, hundreds of sigils flash like burning brands along the walls, floors, pillars, and ceilings of the bunker before fading from view. 

 

Sam’s eyes frantically track the symbols as they light up, and looks highly disappointed that he didn’t get a chance to sketch them before they flashed out of view.

 

Gabriel tuts softly and presses a finger to his nose.  “Sorry, moose.  That’s an old secret family recipe.  No sharing.”

 

“Is it safe for us to leave the bunker?” Sam asks, gesturing towards the stairs leading up to the blast door.

 

“You two still have Cassie’s artwork carved into your ribs, so you’re good.  Just don’t call too much attention to yourselves in any conventional ways.  The Host has moved into the 21st century and keeps up with TV and social media now,” Gabriel replies before turning to Castiel, his expression going soft again.  “I’d offer you the same protection, but I don’t know how it’d affect the little guy.  My best advice to keep you safe is to lay low in the bunker for the coming months.”

 

Castiel sighs, not at all on board with being confined to one place for so long.  Time on Earth might move by in the blink of an eye compared to Heaven, but while his Grace is working hard to grow a new life, his sense of time and space is much more human than usual.  The next six months stuck in the bunker loom ahead of him like infinity trapped in bottle.

 

“I’ll keep an ear open for trouble, and if any of you need me,” Gabriel’s golden eyes flick over to Sam and Dean, emphasizing that he means them too, “just send out a prayer specifically to me.  I have my own private line so you don’t have to worry about projecting to everybody else and risk bringing the whole gang down on you.”

 

With a little nod, Gabriel pops out of existence.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! I updated this! (FINALLY!)

He’s back in the room again.

The same four not-quite-white walls standing sentry over him. The same barely there current of recycled air ghosting over his bare forearms. The same bed with the same thin pillow and same scratchy blanket offering some non-human’s idea of comfort.

He sees things in fits and flashes. None of it makes any sense. 

There’s a woman standing next to him, wearing a neatly pressed, tailored, gray pantsuit, buttoned all the way up to her throat, light brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. Everything about her screams bureaucrat. Everything about her screams order and power. Everything about her screams _Angel_. 

He should be scared. He should be running away.

Gabriel had warned him about Heaven finding out about the nephilim cradled in his Grace.

But, there’s something unnaturally calm in this angel-woman's demeanor that forces him to trust her. There’s something familiar about her, too.

She smiles at him, patient and motherly, says something he doesn’t quite catch. 

He must say as much out loud because she chuckles softly at him and presses her hand to his shoulder gently before turning away momentarily.

She turns back with one slim hand wrapped around a syringe-like instrument. She leans over his rounded abdomen.

He shies away just half a moment too late. His back bows off the bed and his Grace shrieks in protest as she plunges the needle into his belly.

The world whites out.

***

“Hey, Ground Control to Major Tom.”

Castiel blinks.

Something nudges his socked foot.

“C’mon, man. I know Food Network is great, but Ted Allen ain’t that interesting.”

He blinks a second time before tilting his head back to follow the sound of the voice. 

_Dean._

He feels his lips tug up at the corners.

“Cas,” Dean snaps, green eyes sharp with concern.

Castiel blinks again, this time breaking out of his trance. His eyes quickly flicker over brick walls, columns, bookcases, tables and chairs, books and artifacts. He’s in the Bunker’s library, sitting on the couch, watching television with the sound turned down low. Dean’s standing over him holding a plate of food in one hand and a glass of clear, amber colored liquid in the other.

There’s something flickering far in the back of his mind telling him this isn’t where he was just a few seconds ago, but the feeling is fading fast, like a dream. He's in the Bunker. He hasn't left the safety of the Men of Letter's headquarters since he first stepped foot inside two months ago.

Finally, he moves, lifting his arms up so he can dig into his eyes with both fists in an attempt to clear away the fog. He hears the expulsion of air as Dean lets out a breath, relaxing the muscles that went rigid with _fight-or-flight_ when Castiel didn’t initially respond.

“Dude, were you asleep with your eyes open?” Dean asks with a snort, trying to play off his worry.

Castiel drops his hands into his lap, which is steadily being taken over by his growing middle. Coherence returns slowly, like the sun burning through an early morning mist. He’s on the couch in the Bunker and Dean is looking down at him expectantly.

“Yes,” he replies, voice lilting upwards in uncertainty.

Dean studies him for several heartbeats before setting the plate and glass in his hands down on the coffee table. The plate holds a beautifully crafted sandwich of sliced leftover roast beef with Swiss cheese and spicy mustard on sourdough, a pile of fluffy yellow potato chips, and a bunch of green grapes still held together by their stems. It looks magazine worthy in its presentation. 

Castiel smiles, for real this time, not the involuntary, loopy thing he gave Dean just a minute ago.

He’s on the couch in the Bunker with Dean. He's safe, though he can't understand why his bones prickle with recent fear.

They get lost in each other’s gaze for the space of a breath before Dean turns away with the promise of “Be right back”.

Castiel picks up the plate, balancing it on his belly, as _Chopped_ switches over to _Pioneer Woman_. The opening of _Cupcake Wars_ is the last thing he vaguely remembers being present for. He thinks he remembers hearing that Sam was going to check in on Kevin sometime as well. That probably explains why there's only one neat stack of books and manilla folders sitting on top of the table where Sam usually has his research spread out from edge to edge.

Dean returns with another plate and a stout white ceramic mug. Wispy tendrils of steam roll up from the hot surface of the hunter’s current go-to drink. Castiel hasn’t seen Dean so much as look at the liquor cabinet since his arrival in the Bunker, and there’s been a half case of El Sol in the fridge for weeks that both brothers seem to have forgotten about.

Dean sits down on the couch, close to Castiel, much closer than he ever would have before. Castiel loves the solid press of Dean's thigh against his. The nephilim enjoys the close contact as well, singing out its happiness at the nearness of both its parents. He can see the green light of Dean's soul reaching out to their child, who has started to develop its physical form over the past few weeks. Apparently, his Grace has seen fit to allow the nephilim to grow its body inside his vessel, giving both Dean and him a way to bond with it before its birth.

Without hesitation, Dean reaches over, laying his palm against the curve of Castiel's stomach. 

"Ya know, I read that feeling foggy is pretty common in late pregnancy," Dean says, quietly as his thumb moves back and forth in a short arc against Castiel's worn black t-shirt. "It's a side effect of hormones and junk."

"Good to know what I'm feeling isn't anything out of the ordinary," Castiel agrees, picking up one half of his sandwich and taking a big bite. A wonderful warmth spreads through his chest every time Dean shares some little tidbit of knowledge he stumbled across while researching. He knows Dean has _babycenter.com_ bookmarked in his laptop and spends almost as much time reading articles on the website as he does looking up stuff for hunters in need. While Castiel's current condition isn't exactly a textbook pregnancy, Dean seems to be preparing himself with as much information as possible, regardless.

"When will Sam be back?" Castiel asks after swallowing.

Dean lifts his hand, swiping his thumb against the corner of Castiel's mouth before licking off the dollop of mustard he wiped up. "Not sure. After he makes sure Kevin gets a few hours of sunlight and human interaction, he said he was gonna check in with Garth. The guy thinks there's a ghost out on some highway in the Ozarks, wants to see if they can put it to rest before it starts its next cycle of appearances."

"You didn't want to go with them?" Castiel plucks a two grapes from the cluster on his plate.

"Nah," he replies with a shrug and a sheepish smile. "Rather stay here with you."

The furthest Dean has gone since Castiel's return has been to the grocery store just a few miles away in Lebanon. He hasn't gone on a single hunt preferring to spend his time turning the Bunker into a home and working on reestablishing Bobby's network of hunters. With Charlie Bradbury's remote assistance, they've set up an online forum and index for hunters looking for information. 

Oddly enough, it's Sam who can't sit still for too long. He has partnered up with a couple of hunters for a few hunts, though he never goes more than a couple of hours away from the Bunker. He always comes back after a few days, looking at ease with himself after helping out some stranger. Castiel believes it's not so much the hunt that calls to Sam, but his drive to serve others. Dean sees it too and lets him go, but always worries over him until he comes home.

Castiel bumps his shoulder against Dean's as they focus on their lunch and the television, nothing else needing their immediate attention for the time being.

There will be a whole week of just quietly existing in the Bunker. Of sleeping late, curled up together under the feather comforter on Dean's bed until the shape of both of them is etched into its memory foam. Of eating three home-cooked meals on real plates with real silverware at the kitchen table or the library table every day. Of sprawling on the couch, dozing through hours of mediocre cable TV. Of making up for lost time when both of them were too caught up in everything else to pay attention to how much they needed each other, how much they wanted to be together.

It's wonderful. It's perfect.

Until it isn't.


	8. Chapter 8

It happens again.

The room.

The woman.

The needle. 

It happens more than once. 

Each time, he remembers it like he remembers a dream - vividly for about ten seconds before it flits away as consciousness returns and he realizes he's lying on the couch or curled up in bed. 

 

*** 

 

Then it changes. 

He's standing in front of a cracked mirror watching as his midsection undulates with the twisting, roiling mass of Leviathan that have taken over his vessel. 

He can't breathe for the viscous ooze filling his mouth and nose, running in inky rivers down his face and neck. 

He can't hear for the unrelenting noise of the monsters screeching in triumph at their release from Purgatory. 

He can't see for the red haze of their blood-thirsty victory blinding him. 

But, he _can_ end it. 

His hand wraps around the smooth hilt of his sword. 

He can end it. 

He raises the blade. 

He can end them. 

The sharp point of his weapon punctures his flesh, razor’s edge sliding in cleanly with little resistance.  The brilliant, pure light of his Grace pours out of the wound, intensifying and consuming everything around him, everything inside of him. 

The Leviathan rage against him, too late to stop the mutual destruction. 

Their incensed screams grow until they are abruptly cut off.

 

***

 

"What the fuck...?"   _Dean_. 

"Cas!  Stop!"   _Sam_. 

"Shit."   _Dean_.

 Castiel grunts in pain as the nightmare releases him.  He blinks, sight slowly coming into focus on the world around him.  He's in the Bunker's kitchen.  The cabinets loom high over him.  _Why is he on the floor?_  

"Hey, look at me," Dean says urgently, somewhere between angry and terrified, from Castiel's left as Sam leans in closer to his right.  The younger brother's hazel eyes are wide with fright. 

Castiel turns his gaze up.  "Dean?" 

"Let go, Cas." 

He furrows a brow in confusion.  _Let go of what?_  

"Let go," Dean commands again, squeezing his right wrist tightly with a slight shake. 

Castiel opens his fingers.  They're sticky and wet.  He lifts his hand.  It's covered in bright red. 

Sam moves fast, pushing a towel against the side of his stomach. 

"Gabriel, get your ass down here, right now!" Dean calls out frantically. 

A rustle announces the archangel's arrival.  He appears in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a pair of black silk boxers with red lips all over them, his arms extended above his head in mid-stretch. 

"I appreciate the invite to come hang out with you sausages, but I was in the middle of someone..." He trails off when he finally processes the scene before him.  "What the hell happened?!" 

"Don't know.  We just found him like this," Dean says quickly looking from the other angel to his brother for any further input, but Sam just shrugs. 

Pain radiates from Castiel's side, working its way along every single nerve in his body.  He frowns, dropping his hand down to the floor, unable to hold it up any longer. 

"Hurts," he grits out between clenched teeth. 

"Yeah, well, when you stab yourself with a knife, it usually hurts like a bitch," Dean retorts harshly. 

"Leviathan."  The word slides out between his lips, unbidden.  It sounds strange when he says it. 

"No, kiddo.  That little monster movin' around in your belly isn't evil incarnate," Gabriel murmurs as he kneels down next to them and lays both hands on Castiel’s stomach. 

Castiel closes his eyes, basking in the familiar warmth of his brother's Grace as it embraces him.  

He drifts.  

Dean calls out to him, but he's too far away.

 

***

 

Waking comes gradually, like it usually does after he's been asleep too long.  Blindly, he reaches out under the covers, searching for Dean, needing reassurance that he’s physically nearby.  When his search comes up empty, he opens his eyes to find the hunter asleep in a chair at the side of the bed, arms crossed over his torso, chin resting against his chest. 

Castiel takes a deep breath preparing to roll over and get up.  He groans when the motion causes something in his side to pull uncomfortably.  

"Easy," Dean's sleep roughened voice warns as he instantly becomes awake at the sound of Castiel's pain and leaves the chair to sit on the edge of the mattress.  "Do you remember what happened?" 

A memory is there, but recalling it is impossible.  He shakes his head. 

"As far as we can tell, you were having a nightmare about the Leviathan being inside you again and you tried to cut them out with a paring knife.  Me and Sam walked into the kitchen just as you stabbed yourself.” 

Castiel presses his hand to his side feeling the crinkle of a bandage under his shirt.  The area is sore like a deep bruise. 

“Sam gave you a couple of stitches.” 

“But, Gabriel was here,” Castiel interjects, wondering why his brother didn’t (or wasn’t able to) heal the wound. 

“Still here, brother,” the archangel, now fully dressed, says from the doorway with Sam looking on over his shoulder.  “Look at you, all lucid again.” 

The attempt at levity falls short. 

With hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, Gabriel comes into the room to stand at the foot of the bed, golden brows furrowing in concern.  “Something’s not right.” 

At the twin looks of panic coming at him from the bed, Gabriel shakes his head, removing his hands from his pockets to hold them out placatingly.  “The kid’s fine.  Worried about Dad, but fine.  Have either of you noticed anything weird lately?”

They look at each other.  Dean reaches out to rest his hand on top of Castiel’s belly, thumb rubbing comfortingly against its curve. 

“I’ve been losing time,” Castiel confesses, lifting his hand to lay it on top of Dean’s. 

“We thought it was just a normal pregnancy related thing, brain fog or something,” Dean says, eyes focused on Castiel’s stomach. 

“What about any of this is _normal_?”  Gabriel pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.  He looks conflicted when he straightens up.  “I gotta go check on some things.  It might take me a while.  In the meantime, I suggest nobody leaves the Bunker and you two,” he points at Sam and Dean, “keep a close eye on him,” he finishes, pointing at Castiel.  “Do _not_ leave him alone.  Not even to take a piss.” 

Before any of them can question the archangel further, he disappears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm still alive! I have just had absolutely NO motivation to write anything lately, and I've been so sad about that. I finally got the tiniest bit of inspiration today to finish this little scene that's been sitting in my folder for months. I really need to finish this story! :)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (Also, I have no idea why I started writing this in present tense. It is NOT my preferred tense for writing and I keep switching back to past tense. Ugh.)

_Hi_ , comes the timid voice of the unborn nephilim. 

 

“Hello,” Castiel replies gently.  He’s reflecting inward, floating somewhere in the vast cosmos of his Grace, though he hasn’t physically left the couch in the library where he is still recuperating from his accidental self-inflicted injury several days ago. Dean and Sam are just a few yards away, quietly sifting through research for a case Krissy and her crew are working on in Oregon.

 

 _You scared me_ , the tiny voice admits.

 

“I know.  I’m sorry,” he soothes reaching out to wrap the little ball of green and blue energy more securely in his essence, cradling it close to the core of his being.

 

_Did I do something wrong?_

“No.  I never intended for you to get hurt,” Castiel reassures.  “Are you ok?”

 

 _Yes,_ it says without hesitation.

 

“Good.”

 

 _Are **you** ok? _ the nephilim asks in return, sending a pulse of concern through their connection.

 

“I will be.”  Castiel sighs tiredly.  He is in a limbo of sorts – not quite angel, but not quite human either.  His stab wound is at a much more advanced stage of healing than if he was completely without his Grace, but his recovery is going slower than any of them would prefer.  Gabriel wouldn’t chance fully healing Castiel in case introducing his Grace negatively affected the developing nephilim.  “Apparently, I am susceptible to nightmares now that this body tires enough to require sleep.”

 

_You should stay close to Dad. I always feel better when we’re close to him._

 

“Me too,” Castiel agrees with a chuckle.  Sometimes he feels like the nephilim is literally going to burst free from his Grace’s hold when it gets overly excited to be near Dean.  The instant that Dean puts his hand on Castiel’s belly, the angel feels that overwhelming exhilaration melt into a puddle of soft contentment.

 

 _You’re really big,_ it observes, suddenly changing topics.  Castiel senses the nephilim scrutinizing him closely.  _Will I get this big one day?_

 

“Probably not.  You will be more like your dad than me.”

 

 _Well, I like Dad, so I guess that’s ok.  You’re really pretty though,_ it says longingly.

 

“Thank you.”  Castiel feels his wings fluff up at his child’s admiration.  Tendrils of the nephilim’s Grace-wrapped soul stretch up towards the tips of his many-hued feathers, running along their razor sharp barbs without fear of harm.  “You are beautiful, too, little one.”

 

 _Will I look like Dad when I change forms?_ the nephilim wonders as it prods at the right nostril of Castiel’s head that most closely resembles a zebra.

 

“I would imagine so since he is the parent responsible for your human genetics,” he replies, prying a chubby finger-like appendage out of his nose.

 

_Awesome!_

 

“You are certainly your dad’s child,” Castiel laughs, big and bright.  The sound startles the nephilim with its booming quality (in truth it startles Castiel as well, since far too many centuries have passed since he last felt such pure joy in his Grace), but the child quickly recovers and glows warm with happiness.

 

_I wish I could talk to Dad like I can talk to you.  He talks to me all the time.  He has a nice voice.  I like it when he sings to me._

 

Castiel has woken up in the middle of the night more than once to find Dean lying next to him with his face pressed against Castiel’s belly either having a one-sided conversation with or singing to their unborn child.

 

“Very soon, he will be able to feel you move from outside my vessel’s abdomen, and then you will be able to connect with him even more.”

 

 _Like this?_ The nephilim vibrates strong enough that Castiel can feel it from the top of his being down to his toes.  He also feels it faintly under his palms where they rest on his stomach.  The feeling spurs him up from the couch faster than his off-center balance allows, causing him to bump into the TV tray holding the remains of his lunch as he stumbles to his feet.

 

“Dean!” he calls out as he regains his balance and clambers to catch the tray before it falls to the floor. 

 

“What?  What’s wrong?” Dean jumps up from the table, upending his chair with a loud bang in his rush to get over to Castiel.

 

Sam instinctively reaches for the angel blade kept within grabbing distance between a stack of books and a card catalog drawer.

 

Castiel takes Dean’s hand as soon as they’re both in the same bubble of space, pressing it to the uninjured side of his abdomen.  They stand there, motionless for several seconds – Dean frowning in concern at Cas and Castiel smiling beatifically back at him. 

 

Nothing happens until Castiel tips his head down and coaxes gently, “Don’t be shy.”

 

Another moment passes before Dean gasps and falls to his knees in front of Castiel, which in turn makes Sam’s hand tighten around the handle of the sword and kick back his own chair with a grating scrape against floor, though he holds his ground by the table and doesn’t come closer to the couple. 

 

Dean presses his forehead against the Castiel’s navel, eyes closed and smiling as the nephilim rolls against his face.

 

Sam cautiously asks, “You two ok?”

 

Castiel nods, still smiling.  “Would you like to feel?”

 

The younger hunter quirks a weird grin, broad shoulders slumping in relief that the disruption is due to something good this time.  “Nah, man.  You guys…ya’ll have your moment.  I’m gonna go call Krissy and tell her what we’ve found so far.”

 

After setting the blade back on the table, Sam disappears down the corridor.

 

“So, there really is a baby in there?” Dean murmurs against Castiel’s t-shirt before looking up at him.

 

“It would appear that I am not just getting fat from too much _home-cookin’_ ,” the angel quips, complete with air quotes.  His face softens when Dean stands and pulls him into a sweet kiss, hands gently massaging Castiel’s hips.  When they pull apart, Castiel confesses, “He likes it when you sing to him.”

 

“He?”  

 

"Well, I can’t tell, but _he_ sounds better than saying _it_.”

 

Dean snorts softly.  “So, _he_ likes it when I sing, huh?”

 

“Very much,” Castiel breathes against Dean’s lips when he leans in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the True Form Castiel I was picturing: <http://nephilimsgrace.tumblr.com/post/104972217670/ravenno-some-more-trueform-castiel-may-have>


End file.
